Chapter 7: Linda Speaks
Linda was charged four days later.
Reyes called me at 8 a.m.
to tell me before it hit the news.
"Obstruction, evidence tampering, and accessory after the fact," she said.
"The DA's office is still building the case.
More charges may follow depending on what Pelton says when we find him."
"You haven't found him yet?"
"We have a location.
We expect to make contact today."
I stood in my kitchen looking out at the driveway.
The flatbed had taken my SUV.
The space was empty now, just a pale rectangle of concrete where the tires had kept the frost off.
"Linda — did she say anything?
In questioning?"
Reyes was quiet for a moment.
"I can share what's already part of the public record.
She gave a statement."
"What did she say?"
"She said she didn't know Daniel was going to be hurt.
She said Gary told her Daniel had left on his own.
She said she only found out the truth later — and by then she was afraid."
"Afraid of Gary."
"That's what she claims."
I thought about the fourteen phone calls.
The text message she had sent.
*Come over tonight.* The three years of silence.
The paint.
"Do you believe her?" I asked.
Another pause.
"That's for a jury to decide."
"But you found Gary Pelton."
"We made contact this morning," Reyes said.
"He's in custody."
I sat down.
"He talked," Reyes said.
"Quite a lot, actually.
People usually do when they realize their partner has already given a statement."
"What did he say?"
"Ms.
Denton, I've already told you more than I should.
What I can tell you is that Ruth Marsh has been notified, and she has a victim's advocate with her right now."
I closed my eyes.
"Thank you," I said.
"Thank you," she said back.
"Genuinely."
After I hung up, I sat at the table for a long time.
I thought about Linda on her porch.
*You'll regret this.* I had thought she meant the towing.
I had thought it was a neighborhood argument, petty and small, the kind that blows over in a season.
She had meant something else entirely.
She had been living with what she knew for three years, and she had looked at my car every single day, and she had decided that a bucket of paint at 2 a.m.
was better than letting those letters see daylight.
I did not feel sorry for her.
But I understood, finally, what kind of fear makes a person do something that stupid.
The fear of someone who is already in too deep to climb out.
My phone buzzed.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*This isn't over.
You should have stayed out of it.*
I screenshot it.
Called Reyes back.
Sent it before she even finished saying hello.
"Forward that to me," she said immediately.
"Already done."
"Don't respond.
Don't engage.
Is your door locked?"
"Locking it now."
"Good.
I'm sending a car."
I stood in my hallway with my back against the wall and listened to the dead quiet of the house.
Then I heard a car door outside.
I looked through the peephole.
May you like
A patrol car had pulled up at the curb.
I let out a breath I had been holding for four days.
